The grand hall had been stripped of its splendor. The broken remnants of the festivities—the spilled wine, the shattered goblets—had been swept away, but the tension lingered like a stubborn shadow. Guards patrolled the palace in pairs, their swords gleaming under torchlight, their eyes darting to every darkened corner. The assassination attempt had shaken everyone, but none more than Lyanna.
In her chambers, she sat by the window, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her goblet. The stars outside sparkled faintly, but the air felt heavy, suffocating even. Her gaze dropped to the parchment lying on the table before her, the words scrawled in dark ink seared into her memory.
"Long live Lorian Thorne."
Her cousin's name felt like a curse on her lips. He had always been ambitious, but this? This was a declaration of war, not just on her claim to the throne, but on her life.
The door swung open without warning, pulling her from her thoughts. Kalen stepped in, his presence as stormy as his expression. He didn't ask for permission; he never did. His dark cloak swept behind him, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor.
"You're reckless," he said, his tone low but brimming with controlled anger.
Lyanna didn't look at him. Instead, she took a deliberate sip of her wine, her expression unreadable. "And you're insubordinate. Barging into my chambers unannounced?"
"I'll take that risk," he replied, crossing the room until he was standing mere feet from her. "You almost died tonight, and you're sitting here like it's just another day at court."
She finally turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. "Because panicking won't save me, Kalen. Do you think I don't know the risks? Every step I take, every decision I make, it's a gamble. But I refuse to let fear dictate my actions."
His jaw tightened. "This isn't about fear—it's about survival. You're the heir to the throne, Lyanna. You don't get to make gambles. You don't get to take chances."
"And what would you have me do?" she snapped, rising from her seat. "Hide? Stay locked away while my enemies move freely? That's not leadership, Kalen. That's cowardice."
Their voices clashed like swords, the air between them charged with tension. Kalen stepped closer, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "What I want," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "is for you to stop acting like your life doesn't matter. Because it does. To the kingdom. To the people. To—"
He stopped himself, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.
Lyanna's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, the anger between them faded, replaced by something else. Something raw and unguarded. She saw it in his eyes—the worry, the frustration, the... longing?
"I'm not as fragile as you think," she said softly, though her voice wavered.
"And I'm not as detached as I should be," he replied, the admission slipping out before he could stop it.
The room seemed to shrink, the space between them unbearably small. Lyanna felt her heart race, the weight of his words sinking into her. She knew Kalen was loyal, but this? This was something more. Something dangerous.
Before either of them could say another word, a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.
Lyanna stepped back quickly, her composure snapping back into place. "Come in," she called, her voice steady.
A young servant entered, bowing deeply. "Your Grace, a letter has arrived. It bears the sigil of House Thorne."
Kalen's expression darkened immediately, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "Give it to me," he ordered, but Lyanna held up a hand.
"No," she said firmly, extending her hand. "I'll read it."
The servant hesitated before handing over the sealed parchment. Lyanna broke the wax seal carefully, her eyes scanning the brief message.
'The shadows are always watching, my dear cousin. You should have stayed hidden. Long live the rightful king.'
Her grip tightened on the letter, the edges crumpling under her fingers.
"What does it say?" Kalen asked, his voice low.
She looked up at him, her expression hard as steel. "It's a warning," she said. "And a promise."
The Guild's Shadows
Far from the palace, in the shadowy depths of Solrion's underbelly, Sorin lounged in a dimly lit chamber, his boots propped up on the edge of a worn wooden table. The room reeked of smoke and ale, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the walls.
Before him knelt the captured assassin, bound and bloodied but still defiant.
"You're loyal, I'll give you that," Sorin said, his tone almost mocking. He twirled a dagger lazily between his fingers, the blade catching the light with each spin. "Lorian must have promised you quite the reward for this little stunt."
The assassin spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at him. "You think you can scare me, guild rat? I've faced worse."
Sorin chuckled, leaning forward. "Oh, I'm not here to scare you. I'm here to remind you who truly holds the strings in this game."
He reached out, grabbing the assassin by the chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. "You see, your little prince thinks he's clever, but he's forgotten one very important rule: the guild doesn't play sides. We play the game. And you? You're just another piece on the board."
The assassin's defiance faltered, his confidence cracking. Sorin smirked, leaning back in his chair.
With a flick of his wrist, he signaled to the shadows, and two operatives stepped forward. They dragged the assassin away, his protests turning into muffled screams as the door slammed shut.
Sorin picked up a goblet of wine, swirling it lazily. "The queen-to-be will owe me for this," he mused, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "And debts are far more valuable than alliances."